I have a favorite experience sitting in a train station late at night. The station was under renovation with plywood walls erected between some of the tracks and platforms. A man sat on a bench some feet to my right. It was clear to me he was blind, from his dark glasses to his cane. The man stood and signed ‘peace’ as a train rattled through the basement terminal, not stopping. He signaled to the onboard passengers, though none could see him because of a plywood barricade he didn’t know was there.
I am interested in how unfamiliar architecture drives narrative events, how a sequence of appropriated boxes shapes character. I’ve never met a person with a tiny house who doesn’t love to host a party. I’ve never met a room that hasn’t told me where to sit, or convinced me it held something back, some unexpected depth. The train station is always under renovation in ways that are invisible. We are all blind to some of the obstacles.